Not Again Or Is It? (working title)
by greenboredom
Summary: Criminal Minds / Supernatural crossover (WIP). Reid's been kidnapped again and the traumatising memories return. Who's got him and why? Is it easier or harder, better or worse, that he knows exactly what to expect this time? (Gen, rated for violent themes and some language, set in the second halves of S4 for CM and S7 for SPN). Unbeta'ed


**_A/N_**

**_Hello and welcome to my second ever fanfic. Don't let that change your perspective of this story, I know it's not brilliantly written but still hope my idea comes across as easily as possible. This chapter is prologue of sorts, I'm hoping to write longer chapters after this one, just figuring out my footing as to say. Reviews and comments, any feedback would be more than welcome at this point, and in the future too!_**

**_Hope you enjoy :)_**

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**Chapter 1 / Prologue**

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Feeling himself sluggishly awaken he spun along with and into a swirl of sounds and smells, it was of a lively fire burning nearby and something in the flames making a cracking sound and spreading a sour, rotten smell. In his mind and with his body, he was instantly back to the time with Tobias Hankel. Everything felt the same – right from the feverish state of his body to the sounds all around him echoing in the old and half-abandoned cabin. He felt cold dampness of the air on his right side and the heat of the flames, mixed with a foul aroma of fish entrails on his left. He also heard the heavy footsteps thudding on the old floorboards, the distant whistling of the wind outside and the panic in his own rushing heart beats.

How could it be happening to him again? Why? Had freedom been only an illusion? Was he back to his most feared nightmare or was it real? He had to take matters into his own hands and stop the illogical stream of thoughts in order to calm down. He was freed from Tobias' cabin, his team rescued him, and he overcame the addiction and learned to swallow down the metallic after-taste of fear and weakness, vulnerability and his own peril. He won. This could not be real again. He wouldn't _let_ it be real again. He had to take control. He had to open his eyes and see.

His eyelashes fluttered minutely and his eyes fought for some kind of light, but what he saw was only darkness that wasn't deep, nor was it natural, it was the dimness created by a blindfold. He was made blind and seemingly immobile too, proved by the constricting feeling in his wrists. He felt the panic creeping back from the corners of his rusty mind but put all of his efforts not to let it spread further. He had to concentrate and find out more about ways in which his movement was restricted, maybe then he could think of how to get free. At the same time his thoughts wandered off in an attempt to recall how exactly he got into this situation, what happened, what was the last thing he remembered?

Nothing came to his mind. The worst of all was the slowness of his thought process, it seemed unbearable for a person like him, who was used to rely on his own logical and analytical thinking, not to mention all the times when facts and figures helped him or others out, even saved lives. Now it felt like he was stuck neck deep in a warm and frighteningly forceful embrace of quicksand, only to be sucked in alive. He mentally shook himself – that wasn't a way out of this, whatever _this_ was, if he let thoughts like that rule him. It would only lead to more panicking and it simply wasn't an option. Instead he tried to concentrate on what he thought was the sensation coming back to his hands and lower arms, along with a tingling kind of pain.

Together with it came the clear sense of restriction around his wrists, it felt like some kind of rope wound strong and tight, to his disappointment. His body position was also becoming more certain by the minute, and it appeared he was sat in an old wooden chair. He could feel the coarse and uneven material under the fingertips of his tied down hands, each one hanging low to both sides of the chair. His legs were alarmingly numb, as was practically all of his lower body, but his back was clearly touching that of a chair and his head was hanging down feebly and heavily, with a thick cloth wound around the middle of it and blocking any view.

That was all he could gather before the steps he'd heard before became louder, and the sound of them made his chest ache painfully. Someone was there and getting closer still, and his head started spinning from all the bad memories this brought along. He tried to steel himself for whatever was to come, tried to remind to himself that he was an FBI agent and that he had managed to survive this kind of situation before. He had to do it again, had to stay calm and think logically, think, if he could just _think_! But his rampant rush of emotions was disturbed by somebody's presence that he suddenly could sense standing right next to him, could hear someone breathing and feel his own fingertips thrumming with cold and anticipation of the moment.

Just as he'd started thinking that all of this could be a bad dream after all, the unknown person spoke.

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**_For those who want to know, this story should play out as Reid interacting with Sam and Dean, deciding who's who and what's what, it's all coming up as it goes, so sorry for the vagueness._**


End file.
